


Apocalypse

by resolute



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, F/F, Femslash, Femslash Ficathon, Ficathon, Original Female Character - Freeform, Original Male Character - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2012-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 15:05:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resolute/pseuds/resolute
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During Veronica's time at the F.B.I. academy, she comes home for her mother's funeral. The circumstances are shady, and Parker Lee sweeps in to help Veronica out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apocalypse

**Author's Note:**

> The characters of Veronica Mars, Keith Mars, Lianne Mars, Parker Lee, and Cindy Mackenzie are not mine, they belong to Rob Thomas and whatever studio has the rights to the show at the moment, and are used for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> Thanks to Wiredferret and Sionnain for the beta-reading

Apocalypse

 

TEASER:

Professor McAndrews thinks taking leave, now, will put me at a disadvantage with the other trainees in the F.B.I. Behavioral Sciences Unit. The man is right. But you only get to attend your mother's funeral once in a lifetime. I don't think I can miss it.

The text book for the week's intensive focus is Kenneth Newport's study of the Branch Davidians. My head is full of apocalypse, which makes flying into San Diego during wildfire season a little extra bundle of surreal. As we all disembark, luggage banging against our fellow man, I think of poor John of Patmos and his mold-and-mushroom hallucinations. I spot my ride waiting for me. Dad's eyes are a little too old, a little too bright for my liking. What I wouldn't give for a little unreality right now.

"Hey, Congressman," I say as I walk up. "Got any sweet deals for me? I have federal secrets to sell."

State Representative Keith Mars hugs me. Dad. He still smells like him and I know it's been too long since my last visit. "I think what you have is not worth good Euros," he says in a fake Russian accent. "But I tell you -- show me the goods, and I give you place to, ahh, crash for the night."

I pull back and pretend to consider his offer. "I want a bed," I answer in my own fake-Jersey whine. "No couches. And breakfast, I want that, too, Dimitri."

"Deal," he says. "You drive hard bargain." Dad drops the accent. "How was the flight?"

I shrug. "Flight-like. I waved my Quantico badge at TSA staff, that was fun."

"Didja kick 'em, too?" We start walking through the airport towards baggage claim.

"Nope, but I did check a firearm. That was exciting." We make small talk as we get my bag. He asks about my classes, I ask about his work. The state election had been tight, but nothing like the previous elections my dad has been through. I wait until we're in the car to ask him how Mom died.

There's no more news in what he tells me now than what he'd said on the phone. Lianne Mars, having run through all of her money, all of my money, all of Dad's money, and the Kane's money, had branched out into the money of other, less savory people than her relatives. She was killed in a car accident as the driver of the car, Morris Johnson, had been fleeing the police bust of a Fitzpatrick-related drug deal. Mr. Johnson was unharmed. Lianne had been crushed inside the vehicle and died in the emergency room. Her B.A.C. had been upwards of three-point-oh. I think it's safe to say Mom never felt a thing.  
\---  
Dad's new place is in San Diego. Better suited to a congressman. And he's paying a mortgage now, not rent. I hadn't been back to see it yet. Something about the move had ended an era, even though it was an era I hadn't much liked. We'll drive down to Neptune tomorrow for the funeral but for now I'm a guest in the Mars home. I walk in and bend down to say hello to my best guy before looking around. "Hello, Backup," I croon, scratching the big dog's ears. He licks me a few times. I stand up, fast. "Is this a new secret weapon in home defense?" I ask my dad. "Canine halitosis?"

"Its all the rage," Dad replies. He smiles and it looks tired. "Backup's got some bad teeth. He's going in for surgery next week to have them pulled."

I look down at the wrinkled, floppy face pressed against my thigh. "He's getting old."

"It happens to the best of us," Dad says. 

"And to the rest of us," I finish. I give Backup another pat on the head.

Dad walks past. "C'mon, kid. Let me show you around."

***

FIRST ACT:

I spot Mac at the bar. She's dressed in the black chinos and unflattering polo shirt that all service companies like to make their employees wear. Mac looks around and spots me, and as she turns I can see the orange logo of The Geek Squad on her chest. I walk up, wincing. "They make you wear that? Aren't there, like, clown hats or something less humiliating?"

Mac shrugs. "I offered to commit hara-kiri to recover my honor, but that was a no-go," she says. "It's good to see you," she adds. "Sorry about the circumstances."

It's my turn to shrug. "We've had worse circumstances." Mac just nods to that. There's not much to say. It's hard to compare roofies, attempted murder, and/or the death of a parent. If there's a point system, someone forgot to tell us.

We move to the restaurant half of the TGIFriday's and wait to be seated. Mac and I chat on the computer most days. There's not a lot of catching up to do. Mac starts telling stories about weird tech calls she's gone on, about driving to people's homes and businesses to fix their computers. I trade a couple stories about my professors at the Academy. I'm relaxed and thinking about nothing more strenuous than nachos when Mac waves her hands frantically and nearly chokes on her fries. "Didn't think my jokes were that funny, there, sport." I say.

"No, not you," Mac replies dismissively. I give a fake-wounded look and she rolls her eyes. "I forgot to tell you. Parker's applied to join the San Diego police."

It's my turn to cough, barely avoiding spraying Mac with Diet Coke. "Parker _Lee_? Your college roommate, that Parker?"

Mac nodded solemnly and held her hand up. "I swear on my EeePC. She took the written two months ago and never told me. She completed the physical last month, and the department is doing her background checks now. That's how I found out, they contacted me." She sipped her pop. "I wouldn't be surprised if they contact you at some point."

I shake my head. "That's got to be a sign of the apocalypse for sure," I mutter. "Wasn't she modeling for Target or something?"

"Yep," Mac says. "Still is. She's in the June 23rd advertising insert in the paper. Wearing a tank top."

"At least she's not doing the underwear ads. I don't think I can take any more secrets revealed."

"Oh, and she's bisexual now," Mac says, taking one of my nachos. This time I do spit my Coke.

The conversation with Mac gives me something to distract myself with as Dad and I drive to Neptune the next day. I remember meeting Parker in Mac's dorm room freshman year. First week of school, actually. I didn't think much of her. Shallow, self-centered, vain. What can I say? I've apologized since then.

It sucks to admit, but being date-raped can be a bonding experience. After Moe and Mercer were caught, Parker became more a part of my life. There was that thing in sophomore year, with the porn ring. Parker helped a lot with that. And in senior year, the problem with the defense research and the Ecuadorians -- Parker was instrumental in figuring that out. She's easy to underestimate, and that gives her a lot of power. I'm familiar with the concept. Being short and blonde has its pluses and minuses.

Dad and I manage to talk about urban development and how the corridor has changed until we actually get to the funeral home. The Kanes are there, minus Duncan and his kid. That's really just as well. I don't ask after him. Celeste doesn't speak to me or Dad. Again, that's just as well. Five years is long enough to turn blazing hatred into frozen dislike, and we all prefer it that way. Jake talks to my dad for a moment. They shake hands. It's very civil.

Our funeral director, Mr. Bergerson, wants to keep the room open. Dad corrects him. No one else is going to come. We take the urn with Mom's ashes and head to our cars for the short drive to the cemetery's mausoleum. A brief ceremony, a couple words, and Mom can rest on the shelf. I'm getting into the car when a woman I don't know approaches dad. I get back out and walk over. Mars family unity and all. I expect she's a reporter, looking for a story on the new junior representative.

"Mr. Mars?" I hear her ask as I join my dad. The woman is dressed simply and respectfully, but she's clearly not well-off. Not a reporter, then. The black and orange of her patterned head-scarf matches her dark grey suit. Her nails are long, probably fake, in an orange that goes with the scarf. She's heavy-set, wearing worn leather flats despite the heat. Most people wear sandals. She's sweating in the afternoon sun. "Excuse me, are you Keith Mars?"

"I am," dad answers, facing her. "I don't think we've met, Ms. ... "

"Mrs.," the woman corrects. "Mrs. Johnson. Morris Johnson's wife."

"Mrs. Johnson," dad says. "I'm sorry for your recent misfortune," he tells her. Nice way of saying her husband was awaiting trial for vehicular manslaughter and felony possession. "I hope you are as well as can be expected."

"Well, now," she says, fanning herself with a damp tissue pulled from her purse. "About that. I'm sure sorry about your wife's death. My Morris is not one to walk the righteous path, and I know he has his ways. But he is a good father, and a good provider. And I have some money tucked away, just for an occasion like this."

Good father and husband. Good provider. Having an affair with my mom, sure, but he socked away his drug-dealing income to take care of his family. Mrs. Johnson is clearly a church-going woman. I almost want to ask her how she reconciles all this. I decide to not be cruel, and keep my mouth shut.

She goes on. "But the Fitzpatricks say they'll come take everything I have if I don't give them the money Morris stole."

Uh-oh.

"And my Morris, he didn't steal from the Fitzpatricks."

But Lianne Mars stole from everyone.

My dad has cop-face on. "Mrs. Johnson, I am sorry to hear this. But I think it's a matter for the Neptune Sheriff's office, if the Fitzpatricks are threatening you."

She purses her lips. "Mr. Mars, please don't play at stupid. You know my money is from Morris's business. I can't discuss it with the Sheriff or I'll lose everything. Now, I haven't told the Fitzpatricks that Ms. Mars stole from them. If I do, they'll come discuss the matter with you and your family. I don't want to do that. I hear you and your daughter are pretty good at finding lost things."

My dad and I both get it. I see Dad's jaw clench as the other shoe drops. The Fitzpatricks are not cuddly, forgiving types. Their history with my dad is not a happy one. And they don't mind taking shots at politicians. So if we don't do something to get the money that Lianne stole, Mrs. Johnson tells the Fitzpatricks we have it.

I've been in Neptune for three hours and my safety is being threatened. I'm just surprised it took this long.

Dad and I get in the car. I don't ask him our plan. I pull out my phone and cancel our one-night reservation at the Neptune Grand and reserve a two-bedroom apartment at Extended Stay America. A week, just to start. I'm not optimistic. As Dad navigates the highways to our new destination I try to ignore how familiar this all feels. Not just the Fitzpatricks. Not just Neptune. I look at Dad, and his jaw is clenched. He looks older, and for a moment I'm so angry at Lianne that I wish she were alive again just so I could tell her what she's done. What she's done again. Hurt Keith Mars. Neither of us wanted this sort of revelation. But that's Lianne for you. Always a new disaster waiting to be unveiled.

At the hotel we take our overnight bags in and talk of nothing important. Not the Fitzpatricks. Not the funeral. Not how much money Lianne has taken from us over the years. Certainly not about how we feel. It's the Mars family style, and we like it that way.

It's well after midnight when I hear a knock at the suite door. My dad and I are both up and out of our rooms in moments. I have my piece, and Dad shakes his head, frowning. I motion him back. Could be any number of people who wish to see us hurt. The Mars family has not left the people of Neptune full of love and sunshine.

"Who is it?" I call through the wooden door. I don't check the peephole yet. The shadow I cast across it could give a guy a target. It's too late at night to deal with being shot.

"Parker Lee," I hear the soprano voice reply.

"I'm sorry, what?" Always witty, that's me.

I can hear the sigh, long-suffering even though she'd just gotten here. "I know you heard me, Ronnie. Now, open up."

That clinches it. _Ronnie._ Sometime in our senior year, Parker had settled on that as my nickname. Every protest I made, that I don't _do_ nicknames, only made her more set on it. The girl was stubborn that way. I safety my weapon and lower it, then check the peephole. Parker. Shorter hair, but definitely her. I unlock the door and let her in. She's Parker, of course. Same to-die-for body, same sweet, easily-underestimated smile. Her first move is to hug me, which is another thing I couldn't get her to stop doing. All through our senior year she would hug me and insist it was for my own good.

I hug her back. She's . . . there's something a little different about her. More confident, maybe. When I step back she looks me over almost maternally, like always. Like I'm a stray, or a wayward husband. I remember the look from when we were roommates. She nods, finally, satisfied that I'm whatever it is she's looking for.

"You didn't come by and say hi," Parker says. She's grabs a dufflebag and backpack from behind her in the hall and sets them on the floor. "Hello, Mr. Mars," she says to dad.

"Funeral," I say. "Tight schedule. What are you -- "

"Oh, I know," Parker says airily. She sits on the couch, smiling. "I found out from Mac six hours ago."

"It took you six hours to find me?" I say. "That long?" I try to be sarcastic.

"Mm-hmm. You switched hotels." Parker smiles at us both. "I was going to make it a special point to see you this trip, and you almost escaped me! And now I find you skulking around like you've got something to hide." She points her finger at me sternly. "Whatever trouble you're in, Ronnie, Parker Lee is here to help."

My dad is staring at me. He shakes his head and shuffles back into his room. "This is all your problem, sweetheart," he tells me.

Parker grins. "Best problem you have," she tells me. She leans back, sprawling casually on the couch. I wave my hands in the air and flop down on the couch next to her. 

"I give up!" I tell her. She puts her arm around me, like she used to, and I lean into it. Parker's hand tightens a little on my arm, and she rests her head on mine. "I give up," I repeat, smiling.

"Good," Parker replies.

***

SECOND ACT:

As much as Parker may have been helpful on a few things in college, I tell her we're not some sort of crime-fighting duo. She sits and demands to hear the whole story. I say no. She looks obstinate. This mess involves the Fitzpatricks, I tell her. She reminds me of the thing with the car-jackers our senior year. This is sordid and boring, I tell her. She mentions the affair our Russian Lit teacher had during junior year. This is personal, I finally blurt out, and Parker Lee reminds me I met her the week she was raped.

I give up. I can never quite get Parker to go away, especially when it's for her own good.

I run a few more credit checks before turning in for the night. The results should be back to me by morning. I haven't regretted keeping my P.I. license, despite being out in Virginia. That license has helped me out a couple times at the Academy already. Parker watches everything over my shoulder. I can smell her, soap and shampoo and some light perfume. 

I tell Parker she can have half the bed but she sleeps on the couch in the suite's common room. Fine with me. I like being alone better anyway.

It's noon by the time I get some information worth leaving the hotel for. I'm surprised at how helpful Parker is. She spends the morning studying for her police entrance interview and running short errands for me and Dad. I find myself thinking it's nice, and try to keep my head focused on business instead of Parker's presence.

Parker and I find ourselves in one of Neptune's less savory neighborhoods, of course. The credit checks reveal that the Camden Liquor store is where Lianne had been, every day, for two weeks. Sometimes once in the morning and again late at night. And then, six days ago, she stopped using her card here. I don't think for a minute that she stopped drinking. It's a good bet that Fitzpatrick cash started paying her tab.

We walk into the cool dimness of the store with a little relief, both of us pushing our shades up on top of our heads. The clerk glances up from her magazine with a bored expression. She sighs and pushes her dark hair off of her face, her nose piercing glinting in the fluorescent light. "Welcome to Camden Liquor, home of the Ten-Percent Tequila sale," she intones. Her accent comes through on the word tequila. I smile and step closer.

"Hi," I say brightly. "I'm hoping you can help me out. I'm trying to track down a friend of -- " I stop. I have a whole thing worked out. A shtick, a cover. A line that I am going to tell this woman, something that hides what I'm really looking for. But it occurs to me that I have no reason to lie this time. I wonder who I'm protecting with the lies. Lianne doesn't need my protection anymore. She doesn't deserve it. "I'm looking for my mom," I say. "Information about her. She bought her booze here for three weeks," I say, and hand over a picture. "That was five years ago," I tell her. "You can add in the damage since then."

The clerk nods. "Oh yeah. She was friendly. Lianne Mars," she tells me. I'm a little taken back, but of course the clerk learned her name. Friendly Lianne.

"That's her," I say. "I'm -- "

"Veronica," she interrupts. "My little brother Pablo was a PCHer. I know who you are."

She's not completely hostile, but not friendly either. I smile warily. "I don't recall a Pablo. How is he these days?"

"Chino," she tells me with a shrug, meaning the prison. "So what do you want to know about your mom?"

"Did she come in with people or alone?" I ask. "Do you know where she spent her time?" I really want to know about the money, but I'll lead into that.

"She mostly came in with that black guy," the clerk tells me. "Big spender, him." She looks me up and down. "I was a junior when Lily Kane died."

Years of practice keep my face still. I can see Parker out of the corner of my eye. She steps forward, scowling. I wave her back. "Yeah," I say. "That was a thing."

"You kept your head up," the clerk says. "I like that." She holds out her hand. "Angela Mendez." She pronounces it 'Anhela.' I shake her hand. "Your mom stayed in the motel across the street," she tells me. "Frontview Motor Inn."

It's an unexpected piece of luck Angela has decided to give me. I don't know why she's feeling revelatory. I'm not sure what test I passed that made up her mind, but I'm grateful. I pull out my wallet. "Thank you," I say, and I mean it. "That helps a lot. Here, for your trouble -- " I pull out two twenties.

Angela snorts. "Keep it, chica," she tells me. "Better yet, buy your mom a fifth and take it to her. She hasn't been here in days."

I tuck the money back in my wallet. "Yeah," I sigh. "She quit drinking." I look up at Angela's raised brow. "Her funeral was yesterday."

"Ah. My condolences, Veronica Mars," Angela replies as I turn to go. "Good luck."

Parker and I step out into the bright sunshine. There, across the four-lane county highway, sits the Frontview Motor Inn. We trot across, dodging the traffic. Parker snorts. "Glamorous, Ronnie," she says as we approach the battered front office.

"Life of a P.I.," I tell her. "You going home yet, Lee?"

"And miss all this?" Parker giggles and shoulder-bumps me. I'm not a big toucher, I don't touch people. But Parker is and she does and I'd gotten used to it in college. The girl just wore me down. I find myself smiling, and bump her back.

The smile is still on my face as we step into the office. The man sitting behind the desk watching CNN mutes the tv and stands up as we walk in. "Welcome to Frontview," he says. He's a little older, about my dad's age. Thin and worn, with workman's hands.

"Hello," I say, stepping to the desk. "My name is Veronica Mars. I understand my mother, Lianne Mars, was staying here recently. She died suddenly and I'm hoping I can collect her things."

The man's face gets that weird, frozen look that people do when you tell them something about death. Like they don't know if you're going to lose it all over them, or if they should say they are sorry, or if it's business as usual. So instead they stand there for a moment, blinking. It doesn't really bother me. I'm used to it. "I'm sorry to hear that," he says. He steps out from around the counter and holds out his hand. "Mark Dreyfuss," he says. I shake his hand. "I can show you her room. I was just wondering if I was going to have to clean it out. The rent was due yesterday." He frowns. "The guy? Johnson? Is he, ah ... "

"In jail," I supply. Mark wants to ask for more details, I can see it in his face. I don't really feel like providing them.

"Okay, then, let me get the key," he says. Keys in hand we talk a short walk to the first-floor room which was Lianne's last home. As Mark messes with the lock, I look around.

"Can you tell me anything about Lianne's last few weeks?" I ask. "How she spent her time, who she associated with?"

Mark shook his head as the door opened. "You don't want to know that, really," he says. "Your mom, it's better to just let her be in peace." I open my mouth to insist but before I get word out, a loud yell interrupts us.

"You son of a bitch!" a female voice shouts, and Parker and I both turn. The source of the noise is a girl, teenager, maybe fifteen. She's ragged, not very clean, with the usual assortment of piercings and tattoos that indicate time spent conforming to the standards of non-conformists. "Where's my fucking car!"

"It was my car, and I sold it," Mark says. His fists are at his sides. Please tell me they're not married, I think to myself. I check the girl's age again, hoping she's maybe twenty, twenty-two? This is a domestic dispute for sure. I see Parker take a couple steps to side so we both have some room. It's a smart move, and I am distracted for a moment by Mac's news that Parker's trying to be a cop. I wonder why -- it's not like she's expressed an interest before.

"It was _my_ car, Mom gave it to _me_ , and you had _no right_!" she girl shrieks, and my attention is jerked back to the fight in progress with relief. Father and daughter. Oh, good.

Mark turns his back on the girl. "Sold. Done and sold. Now get out, Katie."

Katie stands, shaking with anger. I look more closely. She's pale, and sweating, and picking at the skin around her nails. Shaking with withdrawal, more like it. She turns to go and screams wordlessly before rounding the corner.

Mark sighs. "That's the fucking kind of company your mom kept," he says abruptly. He turns without looking at us and walks away. "Don't bother with the lock. There's nothing here anyway."

***

THIRD ACT, WITH CLIFFHANGER:

The rest of the day is like that. Parker and I try to find out more about Lianne's movements and whereabouts in the last days of her life, and we find a stream of junkies and dealers and the people who love them. Stonewalling and secrets and I can't really stand to talk to any more people making excuses for the drunks and users in their lives when Parker suggests we swing by the impound lot before dinner. It's a good idea, barring the complication of getting through security. But it's a rare man who can withstand the guile and low cunning that Parker and I have perfected. We keep a straight face until we're well inside the lot, away from cameras, and then the giggles hit.

It feels fine, it feels fun, and it's the first laugh I've had in days. So I'm surprised when Parker sucker-punches me, metaphorically. "You don't look like them, Ronnie," she says.

I don't have to play dumb. I don't actually know what she's talking about. "Don't look like who?" I say, scanning the rows for a car matching the description of Morris Johnson's wreck.

"You don't look like one of them. The way they defend the drunks and users in their lives. You don't defend your mom's behavior. You don't look like a victim."

"I wasn't worried," I tell her. Parker grabs my arm. I stop and turn, blowing the hair out of my eyes with an unconcerned look. Because I'm not concerned. I really don't know or care at all what she's talking about. Absolutely not.

"Of course you are," she tells me, and she gets into my personal space and glares. "You do care, and you're pissed off, and you don't defend her and that's fine," she says. "But you can stop worrying about it. You're not a victim and you never need anyone's help." My hair's in my eyes again, and Parker makes an exasperated sound and pushes it back behind my ear for me. She is looking right at me, and I cannot figure out what the look on her face is supposed to mean. "You can take care of yourself," she says. "You always do."

I want to say something to that, because Parker looks -- something. Something complicated and I would really prefer this be simple, but she's not backing up. Just looking at me. "I needed your help just now, with the security guy," I say, and it sounds awkward.

Parker looks away, and takes a deep breath, and sighs. She backs up. "You're right," she replies with her normal smile. "Totally the Dynamic Duo."

I spot the car and head for it with a sense of relief. "More like Abbot and Costello," I tell her.

"No, I'm thinking Buffy and Willow." I roll my eyes, but we're at the car anyway. I can focus on business, not a discussion of victims and abusers and who needs help and the weird look on Parker's face. "Go around the driver's side," I tell her. "See if you can get the -- "

I never get a chance to finish the request. I'm cut off by a short shriek from Parker as she jumps back. Rising from his hiding place behind the car is a man. A Fitzpatrick by the look of him, though I can't place which one. He looks at us and sneers. "This your mom's car?" he says to me.

"Nope," I reply. "Fancy meeting you here, ah, Jimmy, is it?"

"Dell," he says. His eyes narrow. "You gotta be Veronica Mars."

"The one and only."

Dell glances at Parker. "This your girlfriend?"

I can't think of the right answer. If I say yes, he knows she's valuable to me, and can leverage that. If I say no, he uses her bystander status against me. Either way I'm in a jam and Parker's in danger. I take too long to answer, and Parker and Dell both are giving me funny looks. Dell laughs. "It don't matter," he says, confirming my fears, and reaches into his waistband for something.

I have my weapon in hand and safety off and I don't remember reaching for it. The muzzle's covering his chest. I see the knife in his hand and I don't feel so stupid about my hair-trigger response. "Why're you here, Dell," I ask him. He looks at me and I don't know what it is he sees on my face. Dell spits to one side, overly-casual, and puts the knife back in the sheath on his pants.

"Cunt," he says casually. "Dyke cunts."

"Try again."

"I'm here same as you," he says. "Looking for the money."

I lower my piece but keep it ready. "If you Fitzpatrick boys wanted it so bad, why didn't you ask her for it before you got her killed?" It's almost like I'm not talking about my mother.

Dell snorts and hawks a loogie onto the hood of the car. "We didn't get her killed," he says. He shakes his head. "We didn't call no cops. That just fucks shit up. And it's bad business."

"You didn't call the cops, break up the deal?"

"No!" Dell looks at me and snorts, like I'm some kind of prize moron. "How does that give us our money? We was gonna say hello to her that night, at the hotel. But the cops got involved first and it all went to shit." He eyes the car. "If the money ain't here, I don't know where it is."

We all three stare at the vehicle. I motion to it. "Go on," I tell Dell Fitzpatrick. "Search the car. It's not like it's the end of the world."

He scowls but does it. I'm grateful for it, too, when I look it and see all the dried blood on the seat and dash. I keep my head focused on business, though, and I don't put my gun away. An hour later, we still have nothing. Dell says a charming goodbye and strolls away like a cat that just fell off a bookshelf. 'I meant to do that.' When he's out of sight I wait another minute before setting the safety and putting the gun away.

"That's twice I've pulled my piece in Neptune, and I've been here less than thirty hours," I complain. I'm hungry, and hot, and thirsty, and now that Dell has left I can't decide whether I'm angry or scared. I go with angry. It's my comfort zone.

Parker walks a little closer and links her arm with mine. I lean my head on her shoulder and angry leaks out, leaving only the tired and thirsty. "Whoever called the cops on the deal probably has the money," I tell her.

"I know," she says. "They took it, and they had to get Morris and Lianne out of the picture so no one would notice the cash was missing." She tugs on my arm. "So who knew they were going to a deal, and knew they could be busted, and knew Lianne had a whole lot of cash in her motel room?"

I blink. "You make it sound easy," I say, standing up straight. It's dark. After ten o'clock. I text my dad to let him know I'm alive. "It could still be anyone at the motel. We're not going to get a 'Murder She Wrote' revelation."

"Well, we're not finding them standing here." Parker briefly and efficiently pulls her hair back in a short ponytail. Her triceps flex visibly under the unflattering sodium lights of the impound lot. I look away before she sees me watching. Too late. Parker stretches and winks. "You're buying dinner on the way. I think Subway. I have to watch my carbs."

"You're going to make detective." It's as clear to me then as the dreams I used to have of Lily. I can see it, how Parker Lee will work her way to detective in the San Diego Police Department.

She looks at me. "Mac told you?" I nod. "Some people have no discretion."

"You made her a personal reference, she was going to find out," I reply. "And you know Mac has no secrets from me. Why a cop, Parker?"

She opens her mouth to answer and jerks suddenly, slapping at an insect landing on her leg. "Skip it for now, Ronnie?" she says. "Let's eat. I _hate_ bugs. We can do the big personal revelation thing later."

I shrug and let it drop. For the moment.

After a couple sandwiches and sodas Parker and I end up back at the Frontview Motor Inn. I park in the lot and turn off the engine. "You think someone here, or the clerk across the street?" I ask.

"Angela saw all the money, that's for sure," Parker replies. Her eyes narrow in a determined way. It's kind of adorable, like a shi-tzu puppy tackling a large toy. "But I'm guessing it's someone here at the hotel."

"I'm willing to roll with your fine detecting skills," I say. "Let's go ask Mark Dreyfuss who else was staying here last week."

We head for the office. Parker goes in the door first. She stiffens and moves quickly to one side. I follow, ready to see what startled her. I don't relax when I see it's just Katie Dreyfuss. 'Just'. I know exactly how vile and evil teenagers can be. And that's before you add in scared, desperate, and addicted.

Katie's staring at us from behind the desk like we caught her doing something so I presume we have. "Move away from the desk, Katie," I say, advancing towards her. She straightens up and I can see it. A drawer full of money in little rubber-banded rolls. "Parker," I add. "Call the Sheriff."

"What?" shrieks Katie, backing up. Her eyes are showing white all around and I can smell the sweat on her. "No, this isn't mine!"

"Just move away, and keep your hands in the air."

"Katie, get out." The new voice startles me. It shouldn't have, but sometimes the mojo is just not with me. I turn my head, keeping my hands in sight. Mark Dreyfuss is in the back doorway, the one marked 'Emergency Exit: Alarm Will Sound.' I guess that's not entirely accurate. I don't hear an alarm. But I don't have time to concern myself with firecodes, not when I'm looking up the barrel of a shotgun.

"Mr. Dreyfuss." I pause. I don't have a follow-through. "We have reason to believe that my mother may have left stolen goods in your office." There, that's a lie, but all I want is to get the gun out of the equation.

"Put your phone away," he says. He's looking past me, at Parker. I can't turn around to check what she's doing.

"Mr. Dreyfuss," she says. "Veronica and I don't want any trouble. We just want to get the accident squared away. We don't want anyone else hurt in this. Do we, Veronica?"

She keeps saying my name, and I get it. She doesn't want Mark to shoot me. She's saying my name, making me human, and I think again about the detective she's going to make. "No, Parker, we don't want any more trouble. Not for anyone."

Mark shakes his head. From my vantage point it makes the barrel of the shotgun waver alarmingly. "I can't let you do that," he says. "I mean, I'm sorry about your mom. I guess car accidents happen. But the money is staying here. I need it."

The shoe drops. I remember his face when I told him Lianne was dead, and it all fits. He had the access and the knowledge. My eyes flicker to Katie. And Mark has a real hatred of drug dealers. It makes sense.

"What?" Katie takes a step towards her dad. "You stole all this money from some woman? You got someone killed? What the _fuck_ , dad?" Her voice is shrill. "If you had this money, why did you sell my fucking car?"

He turns to face his daughter, and the gun, the gun, why am I the only one watching the gun? No, that's not fair, Parker's watching it too. She's standing away from me so we can't both be hit at once. Smart girl.

"I sold your car so you'd stop meeting those fucking dealers!" Mark yells. "I stole the money to send your ass to rehab and you're a minor and I can fucking make you fucking go!"

***

FOURTH ACT:

Mark's face is a mask of emotions I don't like to think about. Grief. Loss. Rage. He's forgotten that he's aiming a shotgun at his daughter. "Katie, you are going to rehab so you don't end up like Lianne-fucking-Mars!"

"Fuck you!" Katie screams. She charges him and I move slowly. So slowly. I see Mark swing the shotgun up in pure reflex. That's the thing about guns. We point them at stuff. Stuff, and animals, and people.

And then they go off.

As Katie doubles over Mark throws the gun to the side. I catch it by the barrel, not my smartest move. It's a little hot. But I don't have time to worry about my hands.

Parker shoves me out of the way and kneels by Katie. She pushes Mark aside, too. He's crying. It's a really ugly sound, like the end of the world. Apocalypse. Parker's got the girl on her back and is applying pressure, stopping the bleeding. I'm on the phone that I don't remember dialing. My voice is so calm as I give the information, I don't sound like me.

Katie's still conscious, still talking, when the paramedics and cops flood in. Mark is arrested, Parker and I give statements, and we spend a long six hours in the Neptune County Sheriff's Office. Home sweet home.

It's four a.m. when we make it back to the hotel. We let ourselves in and I'm a little surprised when Parker follows me into my bedroom. She closes the door behind her and grabs my hand.

"Hey!" I try to tug away. "Damn, you're strong," I mutter.

"You've been guarding this hand all night," Parker replies. "Don't be a dumbass." She opens my fingers. There, on the palm, is the burn I got from the barrel of Mark's shotgun. "Oops, nope, too late for that. Dumbass." She drags me into the small bathroom and begins to run the water. "Were you just going to do a holy martyr thing, here?"

I'm tired. It's been a very, very long day. "Huh?"

"He was trying to save his daughter from becoming the kind of person your mom was, and we stopped him and made him shoot her. Shoot his daughter, not your mom. Were you just going to suffer in stoic silence all night, cradling this burn in a weird Mars-ian apology?"

I pull away this time. Quantico is not for pussies and while Parker is strong, so am I. "This isn't some sort of masochistic payment," I hiss. "This is just -- there hasn't been time. I'm fine, thanks."

"I didn't ask if you were fine." Parker runs the cold water and wets a cloth.

I take the cloth out of her hand without asking. "You implied I wasn't."

"You buried your estranged mother yesterday, had your safety threatened twice, and saw a girl shot. Screw implication, I am stating that you are not fine." Parker jerks the cloth back and holds it against the burn. I wince. "Shut up," she says. "Don't be a baby, you need to clean this."

"I'm not a baby." I hold still.

Parker sighs. "You couldn't have stopped what happened to Lianne."

"And I couldn't have saved Lily," I agree. "I know."

"This should be okay overnight, but it'll need a bandage in the morning."

I peer at my hand. "I think you're right." I yawn. "Sleep in here tonight," I tell her. "My dad will be up in two hours. You don't want to be on the couch."

Parker looks at me and actually stamps her foot in frustration. "You're not going to talk about it, are you?"

"Talk about what?"

"About your mom."

"Nope." I grab my nightshirt off the hook by the door and begin to undress. "Lianne loved to drink more than she loved any other thing in her life. I knew, since she left, that I would only ever be a distant second." I shrug out of my bra and pull on the shirt. "Life goes on."

"I know what that feels like," Parker replies with a little laugh. "Second place." She's leaning back on the counter, a funny look on her face. Like there's a joke here that I don't know.

I look at her. I'm so tired I'm dizzy. "What's so funny?"

Parker walks over and stand in front of me. She took off her t-shirt, somewhere in there. Why didn't I notice? "Ronnie, why do you think I want to be a cop?" She reaches out and holds my hands. I don't pull away.

I shake my head. "I -- I have no idea. None. I've been trying to figure that out since Mac told me."

"Because ever since I met you, there's been one thing in your life that was more important than everyone else. More important than your friends, your boyfriends, your family." Parker smiles, and it's all twisted up at one side, a sad smile. "I had to meet this thing and see for myself why it was always better than me. Why no matter what I did, you would leave in a second for law and justice and getting the bad guy."

Now I recognize the look on her face. Now, now I see it. It's the look on Dad's face from yesterday when we were driving to the hotel. Hurt. The kind of hurt that can't be bothered to be disappointed or angry because there's no reason to expect any better. "I don't leave people for justice," I blurt. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"You dating anybody?"

"No. So?" I can't think. I don't want to hurt Parker. I've never wanted to hurt Parker. Parker's always been there for me.

"You dated anybody since sophomore year of college?"

"I date!" I say, and turn to go. I can't think this through right now and I pull away. My hands, I feel where she was holding my hands, the touch lingering a moment. "Just not . . . not the right guy! Yet! So far!" Parker grabs my arm and spins me back around. She's kissing me before I get a chance to think.

Lily kissed me, one time. A long afternoon of practice. Sometimes I would think about it after she was killed.

This is nothing like that. Parker backs away and I'm breathless. "You're becoming a cop so you can date me?" I ask incredulously.

"I just want to meet the thing I'm always second place to, Ronnie," she whispers. "I had to know why you always left."

She kisses me again. Her breasts are pressed against mine, and her hand snakes around my back and holds me. It's like Lily, it really is, except Lily would never stop pretending it was all in fun, and Parker means it.

God, does she mean it. My heart is pounding and I'm grabbing her waist and I hear Parker moan as we kiss. But we have to break for air. I try to frown, even though I'm breathing hard. "I'm not gay, you know."

"Neither am I."

Parker licks her lips and my mouth drops open. She moves closer and I manage to stop her this time. Her breath is hot and sweet on my face and I can't speak louder than a whisper. "I'm not -- I'm not that, either. Bisexual. I wasn't even bisexual-while-drunk in college."

"But you're kissing me."

I give up. I never could get Parker to stop touching me. Never could get her to stop trying to take care of me. I never could get her to stop calling me nicknames. I never could get her to leave. I lean in and try a lighter kiss, just a small one. Parker gasps and I want to hear her makes that noise again. "Yeah. I guess I am." I smile. "It's a night for revelation."

***

EPILOGUE:

I say my goodbyes to Dad and Parker drives me up to San Diego around lunchtime. We don't talk a lot about anything much. What we did last night, it doesn't mean I want to unveil all my feelings to Parker. I think if sex made me all confidant-ish, it'd be time for the apocalypse. But I do tell her about Behavioral Science, and my instructors. And my doubts. I don't know if Parker realizes she's the only person to have heard those doubts, ever.

She parks her car in the ramp and walks me in to the security point. She kisses me in front of the T.S.A. sign and I don't object. I can't think enough to object. It's a surprise to me. All of it. All of her. There's a Parker Lee here that I'd never seen before, and I have to have a little time to figure out my reply.

On the plane I settle in and pull out my textbook. Branch Davidians. Apocalypse. Revelation. We taxi to the runway and I am laughing. At Parker, at myself. At Katie and Mark Dreyfuss.

It's been a weekend of revelation. Once we're airborne I close the book and close my eyes. I don't intend to dream.


End file.
